


by observation alone

by Quietbang



Series: The New York Avengers [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sports, Casual Ableism, Casual misogyny, Disability, Established Relationship, Gen, Humour, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Realistic depictions of disability, Veterans, Wheelchair Basketball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1555661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quietbang/pseuds/Quietbang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The New York Avengers haven't won a national championship in 10 years. </p><p>Steve is a vet fresh out of rehab, encouraged by his partner to give wheelchair basketball a try. </p><p>He's going to figure out how to push his goddamn chair, or lose all the skin on his hands trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	by observation alone

**Author's Note:**

> Wheelchair Basketball Terminology is at the end, along with relevant links. A lot of it should be clear from the context, especially as Steve is a new player without a lot of knowledge.  
> There is a lot of humourous casual ableism in this fic, most of it from people with physical disbailities themselves and as befits the context- some of the most hilarious and terrible jokes I know about disability have come from my teammates, all of whom are disabled. Any ableism that is not from disabled people or which has malicious intent will be treated very strongly and disapprovingly by all characters within this series; however, if any of this is likely to be triggering to you, please give it a miss or PM me and I can be more explicit in the kinds of things that are likely to appear. 
> 
> This is the first in a series, which will be short, complete fics. 
> 
> This is an AU. Elements of the character's backstories come from comics or movies, but this has no relation to the plots of The Avengers, Captain America, or The Winter Soldier and thus contains no spoilers for these. 
> 
> Title comes from the IWBF Manual on Classification, and refers to the necessity for classifiers to be able to identify the level of a player's disability by observation alone. If they are unable to do so, the athlete must apply for minimal disability.

"Way to go, Class 1"

Steve looked up from where he was attempting to catch his rebound and towards the voice. "What's that?"

A bearded man in a red chair pushed towards him. He's a lower leg amp, and though Steve would put money on Steve being a good five or six inches taller than him, he sat much higher in his chair. 

"I said, way to go, Class 1. You don't get a lot of people making shots their first time out, especially the low pointers." 

He stretched out his hand, and Steve winced as the other mans callouses brushed up against his fresh blisters. 

"Sam said we were getting another one. That's good, someone needs to keep Clint on his toes. He's a cocky son of a bitch."

The other man cast an assessing look over Steve. "How tall are you, man? 6'4, 6'5?"

Steve frowned. "Does it matter?"

He shrugged. "Not really, they've got you in a good three inches of dump. What level's your injury?"

"T2. Wait, who are you?"

The man laughed. "Stark. Tony Stark. Didn't I say that already?"

Steve frowned. "No, you did not. I didn't hear you come in."

"Really? I ain't subtle, big man. How'd you hear about the Avengers?"

Steve shrugged. "My partner's been trying to drag me out here since I got outta rehab, Bucky's really into it all- "

"-No shit? You know Barnes? He's our AT, keeps us all in shape- I keep trying to get him into a chair, but with that one arm, it makes things difficult. He could do it, though, there's a guy who plays for DC who manages- Wait, are you Steve?"

Steve nodded. 

"Shit, I didn't realise- how long you been out of rehab, man?"

"About three months. They kept me longer than Buck." 

"Well, they'd have had to. Barnes was telling us about you- two spinal fusions, on a respirator for a month, partial TBI- it's pretty fucking impressive, man. How long are your rods?"

Steve shrugged. He didn't actually know the answer to that. 

"Are you the first one here?" Steve asked, in the hopes that actually asking a question instead of answering it would give him some semblance of control over the conversation. 

"Nah, the other guys are in the change-rooms still, Natasha and Sharon are transferring- Jessica's still out with an injury, she's our other 4.5, she should be back soon- and I think Sam's hauling balls. I came into the gym early because if I leave my foot on they'll all want me to carry stuff. It's no fun being the least disabled person in the room."

"I dunno, I'm sure it comes with some advantages." Steve said coolly. 

"Well, I don't have to piss with a straw, that's a big advantage. Oh, Barton's here! Barton, come meet our new Class 1, his arms are the size of my thighs-"

"-Shut the fuck up, Stark, and stop scaring the new guy," the other man- Barton- said amiably. He pushed onto the court and stopped next to them and stuck out a hand. 

"Clint Barton. Nice to meet you."

"Steve Rogers."

Clint's eyes widened. "Barnes' boy? Glad to meet ya, man. Your guy never stops talking about you. That was some bad shit you two got stuck in. Happy you could make it out."

Steve wasn't sure if he meant he was glad he had come out to the basketball practice, or glad that he had made it out of the desert alive and in relatively few pieces. In either case, Steve was pretty happy about it, too. 

"Me too." he said neutrally. "I'm not sure I'm going to be any good, though."

"Well, you hit a shot, that's more than most do their first time in a ball chair. Fury'll probably want me to show you how to push, but we'll ask just in case he wants one of the girls to do that. You're gonna have to push and ball handle a bit differently than someone like Stark there, but that's because he's basically able-bodied, he's only missing a foot-"

"-I resent that! That's flagrant ableism and invalidation!" Stark cut in with a grin. 

"-Yeah, whatever, you're only saying that because you don't want to carry the ball bags. Barnes will never forgive you if you break his boyfriend trying to make him push like a 4.5"

"I wasn't going to, I was gonna suggest he watch you actually."

"Sure you were. Anyway, Steve, we'll get you pushing properly, maybe do a bit of ball handling-"

"- I'm sure he does enough of that with Barnes-"

"- Stark, shut up. Like I said, pushing, ball-handling- oh, you're gonna want to talk to Falcon about getting a waist strap, too."

"What do you mean?" Steve asked, his brain running a mile a minute. 

Clint smiled. "Pass me the ball."

Steve did, and as he reached forward to push it off his chest, instantly flopped over. 

"Yeah," Clint said, "That's why you need a waist strap. Push yourself up with your arms, that's a boy. Good job. Anyway, Sam'll have some in the equipment room, he can get you hooked up. You're gonna want to do that before practice starts, or you'll spend the whole time falling over."

Steve nodded and pushed in the direction that Clint was indicating. 

"Oh, and Steve?" Clint said, "Welcome to the Avengers."  
\---

"Steve!" Sam said as Steve sat awkwardly by the equipment room door. 

"It's great to see you, man, how've you been?"

Steve shrugged noncommittally. "Alright, you know how it is."

Sam nodded. "That I do, my friend. What can I do for you?"

"Clint sent me in, said I needed a waist strap."

Sam studied Steve with an appraising eye. "Shit, you totally do, I can't believe Barnes and I didn't think of that when we were getting you set up. Seems like in my head you're still that giant guy, you know?"

Steve smirked. He had never really been that guy in his own head, he'd been so small growing up- but yeah, he could see where Sam was coming from. 

"Let me see what I've got for you," Sam said, pushing himself up with his stick. As he turned to rummage in a box, his prosthesis gleamed in the dim light. 

"Try that one." He threw a wide piece of stretchy fabric towards him. Steve caught it one handed. His reflexes were still good, even if nothing else was. 

"So, you're gonna wrap that around your waist, like this," Sam said, demonstrating on his own body, "And then go around the outside of your backrest. Yeah, like that, as tight as you can. There's a boy. Good job. Now, catch." Sam whipped a ball at him without warning. 

Instinctively, Steve craned forward to catch it, and as he did so felt the firm elastic forcing himself upwards even as he was falling forwards. He had hold of the ball, and he wasn't flat on his chest. 

"That's pretty neat," Steve said begrudgingly. 

Sam laughed. "Yeah, that's one word for it. Thing is, if your teammates are gonna do you a solid you shouldn't have to do much catching way out there, it'll slow you down. But that should help with pushing, too. An injury like yours, without a strap you're gonna be down on your chest every time you take a proper push."

"I haven't so far," Steve pointed out. 

"That's cause you're pushing like a girl, man," he said, and then visibly checked himself. "Or, no, not like a girl, but like an A.B, definitely. It's not your fault, you're not really used to a chair yet. We don't usually recruit people whose injuries are so new, and  
that's one of the reasons."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "What are the others?"

Sam shrugged. "It's a big change, isn't it? Especially for the ones who weren't born with it. The traumatic injury ones, it can be hard for us. Some of our guys- like Jessica, she's got low level CP and a gimpy foot, you'd literally never know it unless you saw her walking- well, they've had an entire lifetime like this, they wouldn't know what to do if they were suddenly able-bodied. But with us it can be a lot harder. There's a lot of shit going on the first year post-injury. We don't want to force any decisions on people that aren't ready for it yet."

Steve frowned. "So why'd you take me, then?"

Sam smiled. "Because you're practically my brother, Cap, and Nick likes me. I know you- this is something that you always wanted to do, ever since I got hurt. And it's a damn shame that this shit had to happen to you before you were finally around enough to do so, but I'm really glad that you're here with us. And because you were driving Bucky crazy."

Steve flushed. He hadn't meant to annoy Bucky, or indeed anyone. He was trying, he really was. It wasn't like he thought his life was over, or anything like that- He'd known Sam and Buck since they were kids, they'd joined up together. Sam had got injured their first tour out, almost nine years ago now. He'd been there when he could, during Sam's rehab, had gotten him incredibly drunk the night he graduated with his MSW. 

It was just this: he hated feeling helpless. He hated knowing that he was vulnerable, that he was in many ways even more fragile than he had been as a kid, when he was skinny and tiny and sick more than half the time. 

Not only that, he couldn't do anything else. His counsellor at the VA was talking about retraining, getting him into one of the programs designed to keep vets off the streets by giving them another trade, and that was great- but Steve's a blue collar guy and always has been. He's smart enough, was a good soldier and an excellent tactician, but he doesn't have any qualifications beyond his GED. He was born in Brooklyn, raised in a foster home in Harlem- there's a reason he joined the Army. There's not much that he's qualified for, and even less that he's qualified for that doesn't involve lifting a lot of heavy things, which isn't exactly his strong suit any longer. 

Some of this must have shown on his face, because Sam's eyes widened. He'd gotten so damn _sensitive_ ever since he became a social worker.  
"I didn't mean it like that, man. Just that- I know how hard this is for you, ok? So does Bucky. We're here for you, if you'll let us be."

Steve shrugged. He was so tired of this, so tired of even Sam treating him like he was going to break if someone said the wrong word, so tired of being asked questions about his _feelings_ and his _sleep patterns_ and even his damn _sex life_ \- he stopped. Breathed in, out, visualising a square as he breathed up one side, down across, up the other side, down across. 

Sam watched him with a sympathetic twist to his mouth. "All good?"

Steve exhaled heavily. "Yeah. All good."  
\---  
Practice was brutal. Halfway through chair skills- they'd already done half court tows, Steve struggling even to move his chair as he tried to pull Thor, a giant double-leg amp from Norway, across the court- Nick pulled him aside, shouting for Clint to get his ass over here, stat. 

"You're pushing like an AB," Nick said bluntly. "Stop that."

Steve frowned. "How am I supposed to push, then?" He didn't mention that his hands were bleeding or that his shoulders ached. He had felt a lot worse than this in his life, and besides, the practice wasn't even half over yet. 

"Like this," Clint demonstrated. "Short, strong pushes to start, then cycle your hands back up. Don't bring them back and forth, pretend you're peddling a bike with your hands. Once you've got a good start, then you can lengthen your stride. You wanna start as quickly as possible, though. And you can't really activate your abs, so you're gonna want to try and throw yourself forward a little if you can. You probably won't be able to bring yourself back, but your strap should be tight enough to bounce you a bit."

Steve attempted to do as he was told, and winced as the dirty rubber of the tires bit into his bleeding palms. 

Nick nodded, once. "That's better. Get back out there with Odinson, Rogers."

They did starts and stops next- two full pushes and then a complete stop, while towing a partner. His hands were shredded- by now, blood was actually dripping onto his wheels. 

"Happens to everyone on their first practice," Clint assured him at water break, "Fury doesn't believe in coddling new players. When we're done you're gonna want to get Barnes to tape up your hands or you're not gonna be able to push your day chair."

Steve nodded. He was more concerned about how he was gonna wash them- they were caked in dirt, and the extensive palm blisters were actually black. Washing them was going to hurt like a bitch. 

During group work- everyone else was working on running something called a 'pick and roll', which Steve grasped theoretically from stand-up but which he was having a real difficulty executing quickly enough not to be blocked- Fury called him over again. "You know what's going on, Rogers?"

Steve shrugged. "Sort of, sir. I get it in my head, but the execution is a little shaky. Sir."

Fury nodded. "Put up a hundred shots and then hit the showers, Rogers."

"Sir?"

"You've had a good first practice, Steve," Fury said, and for the first time his voice softened a bit. "You've got a future in this sport, if you want it. I'll email you some videos. Watch them before next practice. They should help you with everything you need to know."  
He hardened again. "Now go shoot!"

It took him a long time to put up the hundred shots. The ball kept bouncing off the rim, and he'd have to push to get it. When he was done, he looked up, noticing the silence of the gym for the first time. 

He was alone. Well, nearly alone- Bucky was leaning against the wall, a slow smirk on his face. 

"Practice is over, hotshot," Bucky said, coming to stand beside him. He wrinkled his nose. "And you smell like a gym locker."

"What?" 

"They were gonna tell you, but Fury told them that they could all learn a thing or two about focus and to, quote, 'let the damn kid finish or you're all benched'."

Steve nodded, digesting this. It was nearly seven PM. He had been at the gym for four and a half hours. 

"How're your hands?" Bucky asked. 

Steve showed him. 

Bucky winced. "Christ, that's gonna suck to clean. You're probably gonna have to soak them in salt water- oh, suck it up." The last as in response to the wounded expression on Steve's face. "You've had bullets literally dug out of you, and you're scared of a little salt water? Priorities, Steve. You need them."

"Jerk."

"Punk."

"I should go get changed," Steve said abruptly. His cheeks hurt from fighting off a smile, and now that he was out of whatever weird zen state he had been in while shooting, he realised that his shoulders really hurt. He went to push, and made a small, hurt, sound. 

"I gotcha," Bucky murmered. Steve grabbed his arms before he could go to push his chair for him. 

He stopped, crossed his arms, and glared at him. 

"Let me help, man."

"Don't need it."

"Steven Grant Rogers, you are the most stubborn creature alive. Fine, go get changed and dump your chair in the equipment room. I'll meet you by the door."

Twenty minutes later, Steve pushed out of the changeroom, a minute expression of agony crossing his face with each push. 

Bucky laughed when he saw him, glanced around quickly, and bent to kiss him lightly. 

"You're hilarious, kid."  
\---  
Steve sat at the small wooden table in their apartment, his hands submerged in a stainless steel bowl of heavily salted warm water. Bucky stood at the stove, wincing slightly as he poked a pot of chili with a wooden spoon. 

"You ok, Buck?"

Bucky glanced over at him, and a guilty expression flitted across his face. "Fine, Steve. Why do you ask?"

"Because you're favouring your right hip, and wincing every time you think I can't see."

Steve sighed. "You're allowed to tell me when you hurt, you know."

"So says the king of repression," Bucky teased lightly. 

"I'm serious," Steve said. "Your pain, it- it matters, ok? I want to know about it, so that I can help you."

"There ain't nothing you can do."

"Yeah, and there ain't nothing you can do about my legs, ok? And you still want me to tell you when I'm hurting, or when I can't transfer, or about a hundred other things you and Falcon won't let me hide." His voice softened. "Let me do the same for you."

Bucky was silent for a long minute. "Yeah," he said finally. "My hip's bothering me. I'm worried it's getting worse."

"Have you talked to Dr Erskine about it?"

"No," Bucky said shortly. 

Steve waited patiently. 

Finally, Bucky broke. "Last time they operated on it, he said- well, he said it would have to be the last time. That they were running out of healthy bone to graft with, and that if this time didn't work- they'd have to amputate."

Steve nodded. "That sucks."

"Yeah," Bucky said, his voice slightly choked. "Yeah, it does."

"I wonder if you'd save money on airline tickets?"

Bucky looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "What? Steve, what are you talking about? Are you having a stroke? Please don't have a stroke, the chili's almost done-" 

"-I'm not having a stroke," Steve said. "I just wondered- you'd only take up half a seat, right? Without an arm and a leg. It doesn't seem fair that they'd charge you full price."

Bucky looked surprised. There was a full second of silence, and Steve began to feel like maybe he should take it back. 

Then Bucky began to laugh, to a frankly alarming degree- it hadn't been _that_ \- funny- and he was doubled over now, wiping a tear from his eye. 

The chili bubbled away on the stove, and Bucky barely glanced at it as he crossed the small room in one stride and planted a firm kiss on Steve. He tasted spicy, and his hair smelled of strawberries- he'd been using Steve's hair gel again. 

"I love you, you weirdo," Bucky said. 

"The feeling's mutual."

**Author's Note:**

> At this point I should note that although I am writing from Steve's perspective, I myself am a Class 3 and so have slightly different experiences to him. I am basing the vast majority of his experiences basketball-wise on friends and teammates who have followed a similar path. 
> 
> Some notes on the sport:  
> Classification refers to the number of points each player is assigned based on their level of disability.
> 
> Class 4.5s are either able-bodied or have a disability such that they move in a chair with the same balance and agility that an able-bodied person would. Some common disabilities resulting in this class are foot amputations, missing at least half of your toes, or sports injuries that prevent you from being able to play stand-up basketball (a knee or hip replacement, for example)
> 
> Class 4.0s have rotation and balance on both sides, but are weaker on one side or their overall balance is less than that of a class 4.5. An example would be an above the knee amputation or a double sided below the knee amputation, as well as CP affecting only one or both foot or other disability that does not affect balance. 
> 
> Classs 3.5's have one-sided weakness in the thighs or hips but have complete trunk control. Examples would include some lower level (L3 or L4) incomplete spinal injuries, some bone cancers that required removal of bone but not the limb, some types of CP, chronic hip dysplasia, or stroke injuries that are limited to the lower limbs. 
> 
> Class 3.0's have minor weakness on both sides in the thighs or hips, but have complete trunk control. Most incomplete Lumbar spinal cord injuries fall into this category. 
> 
> Class 2.5's have weakness in both legs, thighs, and partial weakness of the trunk. Spina bifida, incomplete thoracic SCIs, and CP are all common causes of this level of disability. 
> 
> Class 2.0's have weakness throughout their legs, thighs, and lower trunk. They do not use their legs to bear down on their footplate, use both hands to shoot, and cannot catch balls behind or above them without falling. They likely use a waist strap. 
> 
> Class 1.5's have weakness throughout their legs, thighs, and mid-trunk. They use a waist strap. They fall to one side while pushing or shooting, or have some level of hand impairment. Some complete thoracic SCIs fall into this category. 
> 
> Class 1.0s are the lowest class. They lack rotation and balance on either side, have no abdomonal muscle control, and have to support themselves with their chair backs for balance. They wear a waist strap, and have between 3 and 4 inches of dump at minimum. These are usually caused by high-level complete SCIs, stroke, severe CP, or other disabling conditions. Class 1.0's may also lack hand or arm function in some way, through amputation or paralysis. 
> 
> Under IWBF rules, all 5 players on the court at a time cannot add up to more than 14 points. 
> 
> Wheelchair basketball is played in a special wheelchair that looks like [ this](http://www.bcwbs.ca/sites/default/files/users/images/WheelchairParts.jpg). 
> 
> Dump refers to the difference in height between the back of the seat and the front of the seat. Watch these two videos for reference:  
> [ here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1CIk3OPbfNU) Pat Anderson, the best player in the world, is balancing on one wheel at a school event. He is a class four. Note that the front of his seat is equal in height to the back of his seat.  
> [ This ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QzakoGrUliU#t=154) is the last few minutes of the paralympic gold medal game between Canada and Australia. If you can, watch for numbers 12 and 14, Tyler Miller and Abdi Dini. They are both class ones- see how they are strapped to the back of their chair and are sitting much lower than the others? That's to give them more balance. 
> 
> The term 'AB' is used as a short hand for people without physical disabilities in wheelchair basketball. It stands for 'able-bodied'. Note that AB refers very specifically to the lack of physical disability, and that it is entirely possible to be cognitively disabled or non-neurotypical and still be an AB.  
> [ This ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vC_5q-0Ui_4) is a pick and roll as executed in a wheelchair. I've never played stand-up sports, but I understand that it is similar to the same play in stand-up basketball.  
> Any other questions? Comment below!


End file.
